


sweet as sugar in my mouth

by bloodrunsred



Series: just a little bit broken [14]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Bottom Morty Smith, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, POV Rick, Painful Sex, Pedophilia, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rick Being an Asshole, Top Rick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-26 08:42:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19764619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodrunsred/pseuds/bloodrunsred
Summary: The thing about Morty is that he doesn't like to be in the wrong. It's a habit that Rick is going to break as soon as possible but, for now, it suit him just fine.





	sweet as sugar in my mouth

**Author's Note:**

> alternative title: baby pt2
> 
> if you haven't read 'baby', it's Morty's POV and you should give that a try too!
> 
> writing black-out Rick makes me sad >:(

Rick has been busy.

He's only been living with his family for a short while, but he already has the majority of them eating out of the palm of his hand; it's almost too easy to figure out what they want and deliver. Beth wants praise. She gets it. Summer wants space. She gets it. Jerry doesn't matter at all. Morty wants love. Attention. Affection. He gets it, and Rick doesn't hate giving it.

It's fun, really, giving the kid the slightest bit of emotion and getting bucket-loads back. He can do anything, and Morty will still look at him the same way; like he had hung the moon and stars by hand. It's also useful, considering who he is, that it makes Morty soft and forgiving. It's a notion that Rick wants to stomp out and cultivate at the same time, because Morty is timid. Sweet as sugar, even when Rick does less-than great things to him or his family (mainly Jerry, of course).

Like collapsing in his room, getting shit-faced in front of him, all that fun stuff.

The thing about Morty is that he doesn't like to be in the wrong. It's a habit that Rick is going to break as soon as possible but, for now, it suit him just fine. He had kicked Rick and, with the help of an unwitting Beth, Morty doesn't chase him from his room. It's an easy win, one that makes Rick's more secret-- _disgusting,_ his mind whispers--inclinations that much easier to fulfil.

Rick didn't know why it had started in the first place; only that the kid had been alone, and pretty, and all Rick wanted to do was fill him up from the inside-out. There's a protective quality to their relationship, Rick thinks, one that doesn't suit the other aspects of their _whatever_ that even Morty doesn't know about. 

Rick doesn't want to hurt him. He doesn't, not in the way he normally wants to hurt people, and there's a strange twisting in his stomach whenever he thinks about Morty in a way that isn't appropriate. Isn't safe. Isn't normal. His head spins and blood flushes south, and all he wants to do is reach out and take or steal what it is he wants. Something behind his rib-cage constricts painfully, but he just takes a sip from his flask. Alcohol is the easy escape, here, the only thing he needs to convince himself that this is right. 

That this is okay, and that he deserves everything Morty is (not necessarily) willing to give. 

The thing is, Rick likes to make people want him too. It's a special kind of pride that fills him, when he can convince people, aliens, monsters, to love him without extending any effort. He holds all the cards, and it works like that. He works like that. He could squash them under his shoe or smash their hearts to smithereens, and it all depends on his whims at any given time.

But he's already tried.

The first time _it_ had happened, Morty had begged, and squirmed, and pleaded for mercy--even though Rick hadn't even done anything that bad, he thinks, and swallows some more of his drink--and Rick's words couldn't sway him. He had promised Morty the world, pleasure, anything, and he had still been so, so upset, sobbing hard enough that Rick's lungs had ached in sympathy, and he had let it go. Granted, he had been kind of fucked up, but the memory had been burned into his brain as it had been removed from Morty's.

The second time had happened almost a full week later, only because Rick had actively avoided drinking in order to stay in his own room. It had all been for naught, though, because the second he had slipped, he had found himself with Morty once more. 

That time, he had tried using actions over words. He had pet down Morty's thighs and stomach, ignoring his crying with the kind of stubbornness that originated from too many glasses of whiskey, and throwing his all into making the kid want it too. He had stroked, and kissed, and licked, and had sat back as Morty vomited into his wastebasket.

So he's here, a week later, with no plan, and a history of getting what he wants when he wants it. It's not a good background to have in this situation; not when he's a god in search of a sacrifice, a pound of flesh to make him feel just a little bit more powerful. He doesn't want to hurt Morty, but what is pain worth if the memory is taken away? There's no correct way to remove a memory, Rick can tell you that now, so he might be left with shadows of emotions, and flickers of memories that won't stay put, but does that really matter?

_If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?_

Did it even happen if there's no memory of the incident (except for the ones that Rick will obsess over for years to come, saved and secured in each line that makes up his brain)?

It makes it better, doesn't it? If Rick is the monster that can keep the nightmares and memories away, doesn't that absolve him of something? He can make it up later, with ice-cream, and treats, and enough attention (so Morty doesn't look for it in anyone that's not Rick) that Morty's drowning in the kind of happiness Rick wouldn't normally try to foster at any other time?

Even if Rick had been the one that made the nightmares and terrors spring to life, it makes him better than any other criminal that would just leave their victim to suffer. He wants Morty to want it, and if he could just try to then this would all be so much easier.

He drowns any concern or arguments with alcohol, and thinks some more. It's getting late, and Morty is probably waiting for him. He's taken to doing so, recently, and it makes Rick want to shake him and yell at him for being such an idiot. He's letting Rick into his room, waiting for him to crawl into his bed, and he thinks he gets to fucking scream and cry like he hasn't extended the invitation?

Another drink forces the irrational anger down. No, he decides, Morty doesn't deserve that anger.

And what does Rick deserve? He does things for Morty that he's never done for anyone else, even his own daughter; he takes care and pays attention, and listens, and Morty wants to give him that back, right? He's grateful, and pliant, and sweet, and Rick wants him more than he's ever wanted jewels, or precious metals. It's a strange feeling, one that makes him feel as though he's a small child that's being denied something.

Forget the cookie jar, Rick wants to taste a forbidden fruit, rip into it with his teeth, and laugh in God's face as he does so. He takes another swig, and another, until he's draining a full bottle. For all his sexual escapades, he's loved power. Power over him--the aliens with more teeth, more limbs, more brute strength--and power over others. Unity had been a particularly good partner for that, obeying his every whim and desire.

This, though, is different. Morty is younger than anyone he's ever been with, smaller too. He's Rick's flesh and blood, he's alive _because_ of Rick, and that just makes Rick want him more. Rick loves himself and he hates himself, and Morty has some of his features hiding behind baby-fat, in the curve of his nose and his thin fingers. 

Rick thinks that he could maybe, _maybe_ learn to love Morty as much as he loves himself.

_And what about hating him, hm?_

Rick doesn't believe in the traditional kind of love. It's a chemical reaction born of instinct, and Rick has rarely had a need for it in his life. He thinks Morty might fall for him, though, and learn to appreciate everything he has to offer, if he thinks he's loved. Because that's all he wants, right? If he gives Morty something he wants, then he gets something in return.

Fair is fair.

He finds his legs moving without his permission, trembling under the weight of his torso, and his hand on Morty's door. Morty's room isn't big. It's small, like him, and fills Rick with an unease that wouldn't be misplaced in the main character of a horror movie. It doesn't make sense, but few things do and he lets it go along with any inhibitions that might stop him from getting what he wants. 

"Mmmorty," he mumbles, his vision hazy. He can still see Morty's eyes, though, big and brown. He says something else but it's lost to him in the way his buzz has swept across his body, the alcohol replacing the blood in his veins (but, strangely enough, not the blood in his cock). He crawls onto Morty's bed, his entire body swaying with the effort it takes to not trip and knock himself out. 

He pants, open-mouthed against the quilt, pulling himself up until he's trapped beneath Morty's head. 

"-not a baby," Morty is saying, his voice slow and thick with sleep. Rick lays wet kisses on the column of Morty's throat, his mouth open, leaving his tongue free to trail over heated skin. It sounds like a reassurance, and he can almost imagine Morty whispering, _'I want you, I can take it-"_

"Y-yeah," Rick agrees, his lips moving against Morty's skin in a way that makes him feel like a lion before its mean. Morty shifts slightly, but Rick presses forward insistently, not giving Morty an inch. He knows that from Beth; give a kid an inch, and they'll take a mile. He doesn't want to give Morty that chance, he thinks, and pushes down the internal flood of protests with another kiss. "All--you're all grown up, Morty, aren't you? Not a baby, you're my--you're my big boy."

He doesn't rock his hips forward where he's pressed against Morty, one leg thrown over his skinny waist and hooking him closer like a fish on a trap. It's an effort, but he wants to save the real show for later. Morty wriggles again, and Rick decides, _not too much later._

For now, though, he can just hold Morty. He's so little beneath him, so fragile and breakable that Rick almost considers easing off so he doesn't crush him. The words come back though, and Morty had all but agreed to not being a baby, and being able to handle it...

He doesn't move.

He doesn't think that he'd be able to, now, his limbs arranged comfortably and his arousal a dull, warm throb between his legs. If he didn't have a plan for bigger, better things, he could fall asleep. He's pressing words into Morty's skin without realising it, praises and compliments that don't make it past his throat. He doesn't mind, though; it's better if the kid didn't get too much of an ego while they're together. He would be insufferable if Rick gave him more than he needed.

Because Rick knows what Morty needs.

He needs someone to love him, and hold him, and squeeze the worthlessness away. He needs someone to give his life meaning, and he needs to worship Rick and the ground he walks on in order to get that meaning ( _because Rick owns the universe and he wants to own Morty too_ ). He gets carried away, really, thinking of laying with Morty like this in a hotel room somewhere, and Morty doing whatever he wants whenever he wants it. He imagines Morty, spread out beneath him, _wanting_ him.

The fantasy is shattered, however, when Morty speaks up, his voice a dull wheeze against the quiet air. 

"Rick, you--you're crushing me," Morty says, his voice sounding almost choked. Rick lets his imagination loose once more, imagining a whole slew of better reasons for why Morty is choking, ones that have him adjusting his position ever-so slightly. "C'mon, let me up, you can't just--you're not allowed to just come in here and take up a-all my personal space."

Rick could laugh. He does, his tongue lolling out as he does so.

He's fucking _Rick Sanchez_. If he wants something, he gets something, and Morty doesn't get to force him away. He thinks of Morty's voice, and the way he had said that Rick wasn't allowed to do something, and decides that he's probably doing it on purpose. That might be something else; his knees feel weak at the thought of Morty seducing him, and the only thing that's stopping him from collapsing is the way he's already pushing Morty down into his bed.

"Yeah," Rick says, but not in agreement. "I can." His hands find a comfortable place on Morty's hips to rest, and he lets himself press down in such a way that he knows bruises will blossom there later. He thinks of later, of Morty covered in marks, and he squeezes again. Morty feels tiny beneath his fingertips, pudgy baby-fat reminding Rick of what a sicko he really is.

Here, and this drunk, it only makes him more excited. All reservations have been wiped away with this treat, this treasure to map and explore, and he edges one of his hands to press firmly against the slight swell of Morty's ass, tilting his head so he can swipe at his ear with his tongue. Morty stiffens slightly, his entire body tensing. Rick can almost hear his mind running, every clue trying to form a picture he doesn't have all the puzzle pieces to.

He gives up, just like Rick had known he would.

"What are you doing?" He sounds small and young, drunk on sleep, and Rick wants to taste him more than he's ever needed anything before. Rick pushes himself up, his body caging Morty in even further so he can look him in the eye. And, wow, he thinks. He knows in this moment more than any other that he's ruined, that Morty has him hooked forever. He had started with alcohol, and he's finishing with Morty.

Without further ado--and before he can convince himself against it again--he presses forward. Morty draws back, face crumpled in the loveliest way, but Rick stops him with a firm grip in his hair, guiding Morty toward him as he closes the gap. Morty's lips are soft against his, but still unyielding, and Rick can't muffle the sound of displeasure he makes as he tries to encourage Morty to open his mouth.

Gentle efforts don't work, so he turns to teeth; a punishment and a warning. He doesn't want to hurt Morty, he remember that much, but that means Morty needs to relax and let him in.

He's clumsy and uncoordinated, and Morty's lips are still pressed tightly together. He pulls back--and Morty's eyes are closed. He could make him open them, but he decides to just push himself closer, breathing harshly against Morty's cheeks as he tries to keep the shreds of his composure together. When he opens his own eyes again, there's moisture trickling down Morty's cheeks, his breaths coming quickly, harsh and rattled.

Morty twists and turns, sharp whines being tugged from his throat as he struggles weakly. Rick allows his hands to wander, and Morty's eyes snap open, lost and confused, and so _fucking_ _perfect_. Rick licks his tears away, offering him what he hopes is a reassuring grin.

Oh, who is he fucking kidding? Morty is scared, and spread out beneath him, and Rick feels like a king. He's on top of the universe, on top of _Morty_ , and he can't help but love every second of it. There's no use in being sad, or angry with himself. Morty will forget--he can feel the press of the memory-gun against his leg, through his pocket--and there's plenty of time later to wallow. Now, all he wants to do, is take, and take, and take until Morty's run out of things to give.

And then he'll take some more.

He lets himself fall back, resting on his heels instead of on Morty, and just looks at him.

Morty wastes no time in hurting himself, slamming his head against the bedhead in how fast he forces himself back. Rick watches still, almost amused by the way Morty is pushing himself into the corner of his bed, bringing his knees up like they'll stop Rick from reaching him. _They won't._ Morty's eyes are bright as stars with tears waiting to be shed, and Rick can't wait to lick them all away.

He's a monster when he's this drunk, he realises. He can't bring himself to care, though, when Morty's looking at him like he's the only thing that possibly matters. Not in a good way, no; he looks like he's been slapped in the face, like the only reason he's not passing out is because he's afraid of what Rick would do to him. Rick almost pities him. His life, though lacking in love and attention of any sort, has left him soft. Even now, he's choking on the words Rick knows he wants to say.

"R-rick," Morty manages to choke out, every word shaky and hoarse. Rick pays attention, cocking his head and watching the way Morty gulps and sputters, the way he tries to keep himself guarded and locked away. Locks have never stopped Rick before. "It's me, it's--it's me, Morty, your grandson..."

There's a million things Rick could do. He could laugh, he could frown, he could kiss Morty again until his breath gets stuck in his throat. He doesn't do any of that, though, and waits for more words to come. Anything to twist to his advantage, a break in Morty's facade, a sentence that gives Rick the power and ammunition he needs to make Morty lie down and just take it.

Nothing comes.

"I know," Rick begins to edge forward, slowly so Morty doesn't hurt himself like before. How had he even survived before Rick? "God, I--I know, my Morty, my beautiful--mine. Y-you're going to let me have you, aren't you? My good boy, Morty--"

Morty looks frozen under the weight of his words, his eyes glassy and filled with an emotion that Rick won't--can't--name. His fingers creep over the top of Morty's pants, dipping underneath at the waistline and brushing against flushed skin. He settles his weight further, his knees pressed tightly against either side of Morty's hips, letting himself sink down until the boy is quivering beneath him.

Rick isn't exactly comfortable, but alcohol races to numb his limbs, and all that matters is how Morty has raised his chin, meeting his eyes in a way that screams _submission,_ despite how it's intended to be everything but.

Morty doesn't push against his chest, but he does lay his hands there. Rick thinks of him putting his hands everywhere, all over, with the same timidness he shows now. It's with that thought that he cups Morty's jaw, with every intention of making him lean into the kiss. Making him want it. Making him whimper, and whine, and scream, and beg for his cock like he should.

And, god, does Morty look pretty when he begs.

"P-please," Morty breaks down, and Rick is drawn to the tears sliding over his cheeks, releasing his--now that he thinks about it--tight grip on Morty's jaw in favour of soothing the lines deepening on his face. He pets, and Morty sobs. Rick itches for his flask, but he's busy holding Morty (who is the equivalent of cocaine sprinkled with glass). "Rick, I--I don't know w-what I did, I don't know, but I don't want you to do this. P-please, what are you--"

Rick leans forward, in a position that he knows from previous late-night rendezvous. "You do," he says, softly. There's no way Morty doesn't know. "God, I haven't--the other times, we haven't even gone far, b-but you can take me, right? Yeah--" he presses his hips down, and delights in the gasp Morty stifles, "--I know you, I know you can, baby."

Morty burns hotter, his face getting warmer beneath Rick's fingers. He almost seems to be having a breakdown, too many emotions crossing over his face for Rick to pinpoint and identify. Eventually he settles on confused and scared, almost the exact combination as before, but for different reasons. Rick's almost confused himself, but then he's reminded that Morty doesn't know. 

Morty really _doesn't_ know what they've--what Rick has--done before; Rick's a genius, but when he's drunk, things get hazy. Strange. Hard to place.

"Please--please, Rick, please, I don't want it--"

It breaks Rick's focus, and it's almost annoying. Surely, by now, Morty knows what Rick wants. What he's capable of. Why he _won't_ stop, no matter what he knows Morty will try and offer him in return for his freedom, his innocence, his sense of self, or how much he'll beg. He slaps his hand over Morty's mouth, pressing down hard enough that he knows Morty will have cuts from his own teeth tomorrow.

_Don't think about it._

There's a little spark in Morty's eyes that's born and dies in the short span of a minute, until he's letting Rick touch him. Sure, there's an underlying tension that runs through his body, but he's not fighting back or screaming for help. That's progress, the kind of progress that is short-lived and fleeting, so Rick intends to take advantage for as long as he can.

He manages to tug the both of them down without changing their position too much-- _can't have the baby running away, can we, Ricky-boy?_ \--and tries to ignore how Morty looks like he's disassociating like crazy. There's two reasons that he can decipher, while the rest of his feelings on the matter are incomprehensible. Reason one brings out his emotional drunk side. He doesn't like to see Morty looking like a war-victim because of him, even if he can't resist popping the buttons off of his pyjama shirt. Reason number two is selfish. Angry. He wants attention, and he hates the fact that Morty is acting like he can't even fucking see him.

 _He can't,_ the rational voice in his head whispers, nearly drowned out by the fire roaring in Rick's ears. _Stop, now!_

Rick doesn't stop. He bites at Morty's chest, barely soothing the angry marks in punishment. 

He needs to learn! He needs to fucking learn because Rick won't stop, he could if he wanted to--because he doesn't fucking need anyone, or anything--but he doesn't want to because he's a _god._ Morty doesn't get to try and manipulate him, or make him give up what he wants. No-one does. He loosens Morty's too-big pants, and thinks about how little this matters.

The universe doesn't care about Morty--if it didn't care about Rick, why would it care about a _fucking speck_ \--and, though Rick doesn't believe in fate, he knows that this is easy. Morty's easy. And it's for a reason! Everyone in the house knows that he pulls the strings, he runs the show, and they wouldn't even try and stop him if they knew what was going on.

_Then why is it a secret?_

Nothing fucking matters, but Morty comes close. To Rick, at least, and he's someone who has made himself matter, so his opinion is worth the universe. It's worth everything, in this room, when Morty is almost completely stripped bare before him. Like a meal, like something precious, like something that Rick intends to hold close to him ~~forever~~ for as long as he can be bothered.

Morty isn't wearing underwear, and it's on purpose, Rick _knows_ it more than he knows anything.

He's breathing heavily, his own chest rising and falling at the sight Morty makes. Rick's had a multitude of partners, alien and human alike, but he's never been so unravelled before; he's never been so enraptured by an expanse of skin, or the way the darkness of the room shrouds Morty like a thick blanket. It shouldn't be beautiful, but it is, and Rick needs more. 

He's addicted. Morty is dangerous, though, not in the way people normally are to Rick. He doesn't have guns, or money, or any amount of power; in fact, he has the exact opposite. Morty has no-one, and Rick thinks that he's dangerous because he can imagine himself giving into Morty's whims too easily for just the sight of this. Like a drug, some sparkly powder from a party, or some glowing liquid at a seedy bar, Morty is addictive. Normal people sell their souls for drugs, their bodies, their homes... Rick has his mind and he thinks he's losing it to this small slip of a human.

Morty looks like he's going to pass out, and Rick knows how to keep him awake. Of course, it might be easier to let him sleep through this, but Rick rarely takes the easy route.

He encircles Morty's cock with his hand and, yeah, he thinks, this is much more fun. Morty's back bends at the pressure, arching up (and away, the spiteful, knowing voice in his head says). It doesn't matter if Morty's trying to get away, anyway, because he's reacting beautifully to the stimulation Rick is giving him. He's panting, and there's pre-cum collecting at the tip of his dick as he shakes like a lamb in the jaws of a wolf.

Rick doesn't know what Morty is feeling.

If he's ever been powerless before, it's because he's offered submission to someone; to experiment, to have a little more fun, it doesn't matter to him. People never, ever tell him what to do, though, and it's always been that way. Rick is the predator, and the universe is his prey. Morty is a little different from him, and some, depraved part of Rick delights in how easily he can take anything from the kid.

Morty doesn't want this ( ~~ _he's a fucking object for Rick, now_~~ ) and that makes it easy for Rick to slap him when he opens his mouth--presumably to scream for someone. It's harsh, sloppy, and it knocks Morty's head to the side and stills him for one, terrifying second. 

He doesn't care, of course, but he abandons Morty's cock in favour of tilting his head to face the front again, his hands wrapping around Morty's neck to keep him still as he talks."N-no screaming, my--my lil' buddy," Rick says, because he won't be responsible for his actions if he does. He looks at Morty's cheeks there, watching the tears slip down in such an obvious way that Morty has to have noticed. There's a mark there, bright red and angry. Rick doesn't know how to control his own strength when he's this drunk, but he doesn't let the temporary scare stop him from reaching down to touch Morty again. Morty makes the quietest noises, biting at his lip to try and stop them as they spill out. "You really want--you think they'd take your side? With you moaning like a--like a little bitch when I touch you?"

Morty pales, and stops squirming under Rick's hands.

It's Rick's bluff (because while they won't be able to stop him, he doubts Summer or Jerry will just let him. Beth, on the other side of the coin, is a wildcard), but Morty buys it. Rick can see it in his eyes.

"Please," Morty says, and Rick can't stop the moan he lets out at how fragile the word sounds in his mouth."I won't tell--"

"I know you won't." Rick says, every syllable spoken carefully so Morty knows just how serious he is. Morty won't tell, and he won't remember this to even think on it, to ponder the consequences. 

Morty's decision is plain on his face, and Rick squeezes roughly at his cock to remind him that he did make the decision. He's the one letting Rick continue, he's the one letting Rick fuck him, and he's the one letting Rick convince him to be quiet. Morty lets out a strangled yelp at the pain, and Rick's quick to muffle him before anyone comes running. Though, considering who lives with them, and how much they care for Morty on a regular day, if they think it's just a nightmare...

It might be a lesson worth teaching. That they won't come for Morty. That they wouldn't even try.

It's cruel, even for Rick, and he's trying (and failing) to be a little nice. He's nearly never nice when he's blacking out, though, too full of resentment and anger at everyone that it's what's left to bubble over (though Morty leaves him feeling sweet and emotional, so only time will tell). If it weren't for the data being uploaded from the camera in his electronic eye, even he wouldn't remember this in the morning. Oh well, he thinks, he can regret this tomorrow. Rick pulls at a pillow and presses it into Morty's mouth, hardly stopping himself from stroking over his lips as he does so.

Rick pulls himself back to press down on Morty's sweat-slick thighs before beginning to pull off his own clothes. Morty covers his eyes, and whimpers quietly. 

When he's bare of everything, his sweaty skin exposed to the cool, night air, he begins to touch Morty again. His fingers trail over Morty's body, and he pushes the boy to lay on his side so he can press against him. His cock slips between Morty's cheeks, and he can feel the air being pushed out of his lungs as he kisses at Morty's ear, their bodies almost one with how close they are.

Rick can't control himself for long, and he lets a dry finger fall down to press against Morty's hole. He exerts more pressure, and the digit forces the opening to accommodate it, the silky walls of Morty's asshole squeezing him so tight that he worries about sticking his dick in there. Morty's a virgin, he knows that for a fact, and he's not quite relaxed.

Oh well. He'll make Morty relax, or it won't matter either way.

Something in Morty cracks, though, something that has him pulling a drool-covered pillow from his mouth and pushing Rick away, something that has Rick mentally re-calibrating his route. Rick's a genius, and it only takes a second of thought for him to decide on a new course of action that will end with Morty laying limp in his arms, and his cock sliding into the warm embrace of his baby's body. 

Morty is ready to shove him away again, Rick knows it, so he captures Morty's wrists in his hands, cooing ever-so slightly. He's not normally one to soothe, or reassure, but he wants Morty to be mostly relaxed so this doesn't hurt him more than it needs to.

_~~Hurt him, beat him, kill him, you deserve it.~~ _

Morty is letting himself be soothed, and Rick lets his fingers fall back down again, only for Morty to struggle once more. Rick pushes him back into the mattress, his back against the sheets, but that sets a fire in Morty, one that Rick recognises from fighting against the Federation. Morty is fighting to survive (even though he's not in danger, and Rick won't let him die), and he's scared for himself, whether he should be or not.

"No!" Morty gasps, his voice loud and tinged with panic-induced hysteria. His eyes are scrunched up, "No, Rick, please! I--I don't want to hurt, I don't want you to put it there, it's not going to fit! Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone-

Morty doesn't stop begging, his voice breaking over the words. Rick tries to make him. He presses kisses to his face, and promises him things like he had another time before this. Nothing works, though, and Rick is forced to consider alternative methods.

He can make Morty do anything, after all. Sometimes it just takes a little more effort.

"Y-you're really going to--you're such a fucking pussy, Morty," he's detached. Unemotional, like Morty's resistance doesn't bother him at all. "You really--you couldn't wait to climb my dick the last time we did this, and now you're going to leave me with blue-balls? You're f-fucking pathetic. You're supposed to--you need to listen to your grandpa, M-mortyyy."

Morty looks like he's having an aneurysm, his forehead crinkled and his eyes wide and dark. Rick can't help but take advantage, clambering up until he can kiss Morty deep and filthy, pulling his legs down from where he's holding them, protectively, against his chest. The angle doesn't work until it _does,_ and Rick's cock is grinding into Morty's, a surge of gratefulness rising up.

Well, Morty deserves to know how good he's being.

"Y-you're right, Morty," Rick groans, a bit too fake. Morty had been right, but he's not enough of an idiot to assume it was a choice made knowingly and willingly. But, if it had been... "This angle--I get to see your face here, Morty, and your dumb little expressions when I do this--" He bites down hard on Morty's lower lip, keeping his eyes trained on his expression. 

Morty screws his face up, and Rick has waited long enough.

Rick fumbles with his abandoned lab-coat, looking for the little sachet of lube he had tucked away in there for special occasions only (or a random fling with a stranger. He's not picky). He tears it open, smearing it over his fingers as quickly as he can. He's drunk, and the buzz is fading into an unpleasant quiet that urges him to move as soon as possible. _No matter who it hurts._ He presses his index finger against Morty's hole, hoping for an easier slide than before. It goes in smoothly, even with the tight walls of Morty's ass clamping down at the intrusion. Rick can barely imagine the pressure around his cock, and he can't help but pant roughly at what the small experience gifts his imagination.

Morty shakes, but he's not fighting anymore.

"H-how many fingers do you need, baby," Rick asks, even though he knows Morty will need as much as he's willing to give (which isn't much, for whatever reason he can't discover). He twists and scissors his fingers until Mort is edging away. "J-just--just the two?"

Morty will be tighter, he thinks, if he doesn't take the time to carefully prepare him. But, on the other hand, he might scream louder is Rick doesn't try and loosen him up as much as he can. Morty shakes his head feverishly, fear written in his every feature even though he's obviously run out of the steam to beg, and Rick decides to humour him just this once.

He pulls his fingers out, getting a third as slick as he can before he's plunging them back inside, spreading them apart and pushing them in, further and further until the base of his fingers is pressed flush against Morty's ass. He doesn't spend too much longer getting Morty ready, his impatience, and desire, and the alcohol in his body pushing him to move faster and faster.

He pulls his fingers free for the last time, stroking his cock once, twice, three times until he's spread slick and pre-cum over his dick. When he deems himself ready, he presses forward, his dick jumping as it presses against Morty's hole. He doesn't put much pressure on it yet, forcing himself to wait for Morty to jump in with his inevitable final request. He doesn't need to listen to it but, god, he can appreciate how hot his baby sounds when the air has been stolen from his lungs.

Morty's legs squeeze Rick's waist. It's not to hold him closer as much as it is one last, desperate attempt to shut his legs and shut Rick out. Rick knows that (unless Morty secretly wants this, which can't be true. Right?), but he can't help but take it as encouragement.

"R-rick!" Morty cries. "P-please, please put a--a condom on, please!" 

Rick can't help but snort. Really, that's what he's trying to convince Rick to do? That's what he gathered from whatever shitty sex-ed class he's been taking? Whatever, Rick thinks. He can give the kid a much more memorable (ha!) lesson. "I-I'm clean, Morty," Rick says, rolling his eyes. "Plus, i-it's not like you're going to get pregnant, you--you fucking idiot."

Morty looks like he's going to argue, but Rick bites down at his throat as he pushes his cock in, the head of his dick making the kid's walls stretch for him in a way that's almost obscene in the effort it takes. He has to slap his hand down almost as soon as he first breaches, in order to muffle the unholy shriek Morty lets out in response to the new pressure. Rick can't imagine how he must feel, his tiny ass being forced to make room for something so big in comparison to his body. Rick's dick twitches in interest at the thought of being big enough to make Morty wail without even trying.

Morty's scratching at his back, blunt nails digging into his flesh as he swallows behind Rick's palm.

He's hyperventilating, his entire body shaking like a leaf beneath Rick, and Rick just rocks his hips forward. It's better than any fantasy he ever could have come up with by himself, the silky walls gripping his cock tight enough to snap it off, Morty just taking it like a fucking champ. Sure, he's crying, he's trying to beg past the tears and snot-bubbles, but he's not pushing Rick away. 

_He can't,_ the voice in his head tells him. _You won't let him._

Morty is too small for him. Small enough that there's no room for his cock to slide all the way in, until he takes the time to push. He pushes hard, grinding against whatever's stopping him from bottoming out until it gives way and he's pushing all the way in. Morty bites down at his neck, this time, his scream reverberating through Rick's bones, turning them to dust even as he continues to thrust. Rick loses all sense of time as he rocks into Morty. The moments are counted in how many times Morty yelps when he goes too deep, or the low whine he lets out whenever Rick brushes against his prostate.

He's growling, low and deep in Morty's ear, animalistic enough that it shocks even him with its intensity. Finally, it's too much.

He's been teasing for too long, holding out for too long, and Morty's body is holding his in all the right ways. His balls tighten, and he stills, deep in Morty's ass, as he releases. His cum pools around his dick in Morty, who is still shaking and crying, and he can't help but drop on top of him, crushing him into the mattress. Until, that is, he finds the strength in his post-orgasm daze to maneuver them until they're both laying on their sides, Rick spooning Morty even as his now-soft cock slips out of his stretched hole.

Morty curls in on himself like a dying bug. Rick's chest pangs, and he breathes in Morty's scent in place of another drink.

"Y-you won't remember this, Morty," Rick promises. "I'm--I'll make you forget." He doesn't know what that's worth but, goddamnit, it has to be worth something.

Morty sighs, a soft, quivering breath that makes Rick want to hold him tight. "Are you--" Morty whispers, his voice shaky and oh-so tired, vulnerable enough that Rick remembers how old--how young--he really is. Rick traces patterns onto his skin in what might be a comforting action, or a useless, wordless apology. "Are you going to--to do it again?"

Rick doesn't think he has the voice to say _yes,_ so he nods. He knows Morty can feel it, the movement rustling his damp hair slightly. There's the need to say something else, though, to fill the silence in the room. Horror dawns on Rick as he struggles to find the words to say, as the last of his afterglow slips from his mind and body along with the alcohol in his system.

He feels uncomfortably sober as he finally says, again, "You won't remember."

He squeezes Morty close to his chest. Morty's breathing doesn't even out, still punctuated with gasps or the beginning of a sob.

It's music to Rick's ears, even as it burns at something that might be his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> GUYS: tell me what you want to see next. I have a million drafts and they're all progressing so slowly that I could use some input! Have a think about it and tell me your deepest fantasies and wishes for this series ;) Kidnapping, Summer's POV, dreams, the Citadel, kinks, less explicit, more explicit... it's at your mercy! 
> 
> If you're a person that craves anonymity, click [HERE](https://xbloodrunsredx.tumblr.com/) for my tumblr and send an ask!
> 
> Ask and ye shall receive, as the saying goes!


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